Brosca's Bedtime Stories
by Oleander's One
Summary: Thedosian fairy stories, told by one who would rather do anything but, really. Humor, suspense, horror, AU, Brosca. Cover image by the incredibly talented ChampionTheWonderSnail.
1. Chicken Little

_Many thanks to mille libri for her beta excellence and friendship._

* * *

"I'm dying, aren't I?" Alistair shivered and pulled the blankets tighter around his head and shoulders, his watery eyes following Brosca as she moved about the room. "I'm dying, and they sent you to make sure I don't dawdle on the way out."

"Or to help you along—my choice." Brosca set out tea and broth on the bedside table and turned to leave. "If you're bored, you can make a game of figuring out which one is poisoned."

"Ha ha, I'm not that dim. Like you'd only poison one." He turned slightly and looked at the covered soup bowl wistfully.

"I am not feeding you."

Alistair reached out a hand for the teacup, spilling half before giving up. "It burned my fingers," he murmured sadly.

Brosca stalked to the table, thrust the soup spoon in Alistair's hand, and held the bowl for him to spoon up the broth. "I am not feeding you." Gritting her teeth at the subsequent trail of broth from bowl to mouth, she swore and snatched the spoon out of his hand._  
_

"Tell me a story?"

Brosca froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "And what misfiring bit of idiot logic would lead you to believe that I'm a storyteller?"

"Well, you're the irascible sidekick, right? Irascible sidekicks have the best stories, quaint anecdotes, and humorous asides; it's right there in the job description."

"Speaking of humorous asides, I once killed a man with a soup spoon."

"I don't think I believe you. When was that?"

"Any minute now." With a blistering curse, she relented. "Once upon a time, there was a soft, whining lump of smirks and bad hair. One day, he was stabbed in the face and died. The end."

"Aw. That one was too short. Where was the fair maiden, the one that falls in love with the handsome Templ … knight? What was the moral?" Alistair opened his eyes wide, closed them, opened them again beseechingly.

"Gah! Stop that!" Brosca applied herself to emptying the bowl of broth into the waiting Templar, her teeth grinding audibly. She straightened, made one circuit of the room slowly and deliberately, then stopped and folded her arms, glaring at Alistair. "Once upon a time, there was a Templar so indescribably stupid that his mother had to sew labels on _him_ so he'd remember his own name."

"Hey!"

"It's not you, moron. This Templar's name was … Chicken Little."

"All right, then."

"Alistair 'Chicken' Little," Brosca muttered under her breath.

"What did you just …"

* * *

**Chicken Little**

Chicken Little was standing around the Alienage gates one day, practicing his Halts and Resistance Is Uselesses, when he spied two elven children playing on the bridge.

"Tomi, you give me back my Mittens, or I'll …" The girl vainly reached for her stuffed bunny.

"You'll what, shem-breath?" Her brother laughed and held the rabbit high over her head.

"I'll … I'll _zap_ you, like Alim before they …"

The children's shouts faded into background noise as a wave of panic gripped Chicken. Mages! Right here in Denerim. He had to report this at once!

Chicken raced for the Templar garrison, almost flattening his equally dimwitted friend, Herman Penny, only just returned from an extended latrine inspection, to judge by the clinging stench. "Henny! Maker Above, it's happening!"

"I keep telling you, Chick, it'll go back down by itself if you just stop fiddling with it."

"Not that! Not just that. I almost got jumped by a gang of elven mages on the Alienage bridge. Hunting shems, they said. The gang leader's a nasty one, goes by the name Mittens."

"How'd you know they're mages? Those elves, there's not a one of 'em that wouldn't slice you soon as look at you, mage or no."

"Went on and on about 'zapping' and 'zipping' and all. One of them was casting a spell right then, sure as I'm standing here. All 'Alim ka zim, alim ka zot', and such."

"Shit, Chick, we got to tell Sarge. I think he's over at the Pearl."

"Wh—"

"Somebody has to try to save those poor girls' souls, right? Why, sometimes he has to go on savin' and savin', for hours at a stretch! Three and four nights a week!"

"'Ees a good 'un, that Ducky."

The two found Sergeant Lucky mid-save, but managed to pry him away. Again, Chicken explained his terrifying encounter. "It's the Insurrection! The Mage Apocalypse! I heard them planning the takeover with my own ears. It's a coordinated attack, codename: Mittens."

"Andraste's Bits!"

"No, no. No more salvation tonight, Ducks," Sanga called from behind the bar. "It's past closing, so off you go."

The trio headed off towards the docks at a run. Lucky flagged down the first ship's captain they encountered. "You there! We need to get to Val Royeaux to see the Divine, as fast as your ship can take us!"

The bronzed sailor smiled lazily and looked the three tall templars up and down. "Oh, I think I can take care of you, all right," the jauntily-underclad pirate drawled. "Name's Captain Foxey, you've probably heard of me. I'll take you to places you've never been."

"_Finally, the fair maiden!" Alistair sighed, smiling contentedly._

"_Maiden—" Brosca choked. _

"Whew, that's a relief." Ducky grinned happily. "I've never been anywhere but Denerim. Chick came in from the Bannorn, though, and Henny went to West Hills that once."

"Not the brightest sovereign in the sack, are you?"

"We don't have many of those," Henny said. "I donate mine to Sarge, to help with his savin'."

The pirate rubbed at her temples. "No matter, I can find positions for you all—make you work your way."

"I know my 'point' and 'cower' all right, but my 'threaten' could be better," Chicken admitted.

"Just get on the ship," the captain barked. Foxey led them belowdecks, and they were never seen again.

"_Aw! I liked Chicken, Henny, and Sarge."_

"_Somehow, I thought you might."_

And that is the end of their story, though it's said that on calm nights at sea when the moon is full, you can still hear their groans issuing from below.

* * *

Alistair clapped loudly, his infirmity momentarily forgotten. "Marvelous! Let me guess the moral: 'Don't go off half-cocked.'"

"Gah! Never use that word in my presence."

"What's up next?"

"Next comes the ritual flaying, if you ever mention to another person, animal, or inanimate object that you'd ever heard, guessed, or dreamt of me telling a story to anyone, anywhere."

Alistair was silent for a moment, tapping his chin with one finger. "I _might_ not say anything … if you tell me another story."

"Did the whole 'Argh! Where is my hide?' thing just blow right through that empty cavern atop your neck?"

"The Commander would never stand for it," the Templar said smugly. "She likes my skin."

"Gah!"

* * *

A/N: To any familiar with 'Intemperance', Brosca is not who you might think. She does bear some few similarities, I am the first to admit.


	2. The Goose GIrl

_Thank you to everyone reading, and those taking time to review. It feels wonderful to be able to write again. I'm so grateful, as always, to mille libri for her thoughtful and excellent betaing._

* * *

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

Brosca twitched her head, listened for a moment, and moved to the window, opening it to the cool spring breeze. "I heard that," she accused.

"I … no! I shifted, and the bed frame …"

"Only because I intended that you should, _tesora_." Zevran swung over the sill, landing gracefully next to the dwarf. "It would not have gone well for me if you thought me an assailant, here to perform fiendish tortures upon your person." He smiled and leaned in close.

"Hm."

"Ah, but how are you to know what it is that you narrowly avoided? Perhaps I should demonstrate these tortures, to give you a basis for judgment." His fingertips brushed over her cheek, tangling in her dark curls. His mouth grazed hers, his warm breath tickling her skin.

"You owe me at least one more story now, for witnessing that," Alistair complained.

"I'm going to tattoo the word 'No' on one palm, and hit you with it every time—"

"I can wait a few more moments, _mi dulce_," Zevran murmured in her ear. "You know how I enjoy your stories."

"Oh. Well … maybe just one more."

"Sure, when _he_ asks."

* * *

**The Goose Girl**

Once upon a time, there lived a fair maiden of surpassing beauty and modesty, beloved by all. Knowing she would never be truly happy until she was married and far, far away from her family's estate, her father, Arl Bryland, searched from one end of Ferelden to the other for a suitable match. Sadly, many potential bridegrooms, having already determined that they were not of sufficient character to marry the saintly girl, had, in their despondency, hurriedly wed the previous year.

Long did the arl search, until one day a proposal arrived on behalf of Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere and arguably the most eligible bachelor in the land. Arl Eamon took it upon himself to pen the betrothal contract on behalf of his brother, who was, understandably, too overcome with emotion at the prospect of a lifetime with the lady Habren to put steady quill to parchment.

Upon learning the happy news of her betrothal and impending marriage, the maiden couldn't contain her joy, playfully lobbing a goodly number of the fine bottles and vases from her bureau at the door through which the messenger escaped following her courteous dismissal.

"Araaaaa!" she bawled. "Get in here, you lazy slut!"

"You trilled for me, Ladyship?" The elf nimbly caught the silver filigree hip flask that her mistress shied at her head, pocketing it smoothly as she ducked the porcelain mole box that followed.

"Clean up that mess. Do you think we're paying you to stand around?"

"Perish the thought, Your Gloriosity." Ara bent to the task. "You know that it is I who pays for the privilege of cleaning the sick out of your hair and scrubbing the grass stains from those pearly knees."

"That putrid father of mine is trying to yoke me to some old geezer out in the middle of nowhere, even farther from Denerim than this dump." Habren sneered at the gems, jewelry, and gem-encrusted jewelry boxes stacked precariously on her dressing table. "So here's what we're going to do. We'll hire new guards for the baggage train halfway to Rainesfere, and we'll switch clothes. We'll stuff your bodice, hide your ears, and layer on the paint to make you look less hideous, and I'll put mud on my face and lay around all day. We'll fool everyone!"

"Won't this gaffer know that I am not you? I can hardly match your, err, _radiance_."

"Never met him. Father dragged me to the royal wedding a couple years ago, and introduced me to his brother, Arl Eamon. Completely crusty and senile. Like I'd bang someone that old." She thought for a moment. "Once, maybe. No more than twice."

"I knew I'd regret that oat I had for dinner." Ara rubbed her stomach.

"We'll foist you off on this Teagan fossil, and I'll make a quick escape with my baggage train during the ceremony. Vaughan Kendells kept making eyes at me at that ball last month, so I think I'll pay Arl Urien a surprise visit."

"Cunningly devised, Your Beauteousness. It's the foolproof simplicity that I admire."

"Who told you to make sounds? Now get to work, I want to be in Denerim getting impaled on a dirty mattress in a fortnight."

"We all want that, Ladyship."

"_I have a similar memory of my first visit to Denerim, actually," Zevran mused._

"_Why?" Alistair complained. "Why must you put these pictures in my head?"_

To Ara's surprise, the overloaded baggage train made two full leagues before bandits boiled out of the scrubby hills west of South Reach. She was turning to retrieve the short bow and quiver she secreted amongst the piles of bedding, when Habren's disheveled, lipstick-smeared face poked up from between two bales of silk. "Araaaaaa! Why did we stop?"

Ara glanced up to see a bandit sight his crossbow at the wagon. Reflexively, she grabbed Habren by the hair and shoved the girl back down in the wagon. "Stay out of sight, idiot!" She drew and fired, catching the crossbowman in the neck. "Geth! Pull up your breeches, man, and get out here."

The guards would have been sorely pressed but for the deadly accuracy of Ara's bow. When a group broke off to charge Habren's wagon, Ara pulled out the daggers hidden under her skirts and leapt into the fray. At last, broken and leaderless, the remaining thugs fled back into the hills.

"All right, men, how many did we—"

The messy brown head reappeared over the box of the wagon. "You pushed me, you stupid bitch! I'm going to have my father …"

"Shut up."

"What did you—"

"_Shut up,_ you ill-bred imbecile! If you don't be quiet and do what you're told, I'll have you hog-tied and muzzled, and you'll ride to Rainesfere over the rump of the pack mule."

"I … don't … I … guards! I want this knife—"

"The guards report to me, dolt. Your father hired me five years ago to be your bodyguard, not your handmaiden. My bad luck that you're entirely too stupid to not run your mouth every minute of the day, and couldn't be trusted with the truth. My father was a Night Elf, and a good thing for you that he shared everything he knew. To date, I've stopped two planned abductions for ransom, a revenge poisoning, and one truly deserved defenestration by a maid whom you used as a nightstand for a month."

Habren's ear-splitting screech was quickly stoppered with an improvised gag, and her wrists and ankles bound.

"Now," Ara continued, "we are going to come to an agreement, after which I will have you untied, and you will ride quietly in your wagon, converse politely when invited to, and immediately obey any and all commands given you. Agreed?"

"I ee oo rah nn risn ish!"

"So glad we're agreed. As it happens, our goals coincide. You want out of this arranged marriage, and I wish to be shut of you if it takes stalling some doddering bann and his idiot shem family long enough for you to get to Denerim to do it. You will be gifting me with a portion of your jewelry, another healthy share is going to your guard complement in exchange for their assistance and silence, and you may keep a small amount for yourself, along with your entire trousseau. Honestly, Habren, you have the fashion sense of a colorblind jester."

"Uhngng unn!"

"Tsk. Gentle language is what sets a true lady apart from the rabble. You have two choices, Habren. Allow this dotard to paw you for the next ten years until he drops dead during the daily round of Slap and Tickle, or help us to help you get the Void out of South Reach."

"Nnhr."

"What was that, Habren? I don't think I heard you clearly."

"Nnhr!"

"Good enough."

"_So how come she doesn't mind you listening in, but threatens me with vivisection five times per scene?" _

"La bella _tells me many stories, my friend. We play a game of sorts, such that if she does not finish her tale before I can bring her to …"_

"_Or we could continue with the story! That works too. I'd really like to hear the rest before the hysterical deafness sets in."_

So it was that the lady and her maid rode into Rainesfere to meet the venerable bridegroom. Crowds of well-wishers lined the road and packed into the chantry courtyard, waving and throwing petals before them as they went.

No sooner did the beautiful elf meet the gaze of the handsome bann, in truth far from decrepit, than they fell deeply in love and flew into each other's arms. Bitterly did the sweet maiden, now in rags, repent of her small deception, but true lady that she was, offered her very best wishes to the happy couple.

"Araaaaaa! Get your filthy elf paws off my bann!"

Teagan looked from the bulging-eyed lunatic, now hauling frantically on his free arm, back to Ara, with considerable confusion.

Ara lowered her eyes. "It is true, my love," she murmured sadly. "My lady wished out of the marriage contract, and enjoined me to take her place. I will understand if the deception or my race change your feelings on the matter."

"Not in the slightest, my only one. How could I regret the circumstances that have brought you to me? Say that you'll marry me, before the Maker, Blessed Andraste, and all of the witnesses here today."

"Noooooo—"

The maiden's bray of despair was interrupted by the thundering arrival of a dark, roguishly handsome man astride a laboring charger.

"Duncan! You are just in time to witness my marriage to this radiant creature."

"I dare not tarry, my friend, for the Horde rises in the south. I come on the word of travelers, who described a valiant swordswoman who recently rode in from the east, leaving windrows of highwaymen in her wake."

"The Lady of Sou' Reach is what done the deed on those bandits, milord," one of the maiden's guards told him excitedly. "Could stand shoulder to shoulder with any knight alive, that one."

The tall man turned pensive as he gazed on the lovely elf, as if pained by the tidings he bore the happy bride. "My lady …"

"No!" howled the gentle maiden. "She's no lady, just a backstabbing guttersnipe of a knife-eared wench! _I_ am the Lady of South Reach. _She_ dressed me up like this."

Duncan looked to the elf, who nodded gravely. "I see. Then I would ask you to accompany me, my Lady of South Reach. I have great need of one of your skill."

"Finally!" the maiden crowed, already clamoring back onto her horse. "Where should I direct the baggage train? My jewels and clothes?"

Seeming confused, Duncan said, "Perhaps you should direct that they be returned to South Reach, my lady? You will not require your gowns for the foreseeable future."

"Exactly what I was hoping to hear."

And so the fair maiden rode off with the Commander of the Grey. Various tales would be told of her adventures, of course, some even true. If brief.

* * *

Zevran's lips brushed Brosca's ear. "_Brava, mi cuentista_."

"But …" Alistair stopped. "Duncan never … I mean, he wasn't ever in … you lied!"

"Such an ugly term. I prefer 'purposeful inexactitude'."

"Liars never prosper, you know," Alistair said sententiously.

"Wait for it," Zevran murmured.

"Which ... would be the moral." Alistair nodded. "As I rightfully pointed out. Good on me."

"That is a very good moral, Alistair. What do you think of: 'Humans are easily fooled'?" Zevran suggested.

"Or the simpler 'Humans are idiots'," Brosca muttered.

"Hey!"

"Present company not excluded, of course."

"Well. All right, then." Alistair watched the dwarf and elf turn to leave, hand in hand. "I don't suppose you'd tell just one more? Please?"

Zevran's warm breath stirred the soft hair at her nape. Her mouth suddenly and unaccountably gone dry, Brosca cleared her throat. "Go to sleep, Alistair. I, uh, I think I need to tell Zevran a story now."


End file.
